Page 6

It doesn’t take long to get from Siren’s apartment to my house when you’re speeding at about the same rate on the trip coming back as you were going.

Not that I have it in me to care.

Just like before, the thought of being pulled over by a cop is the furthest thing from my mind right now.

As I guide my car down the long, familiar dirt road that stands as my driveway, my mind may very well be racing faster than my car.

On its surface, the possibilities of who could’ve taken Siren are endless.

There are dozens, if not hundreds, of people out there who would love to get to Merrick or me.

But if this had anything to do with Merrick, they would’ve gone after Amelia, not Siren.

No, this is either about me and something I’ve done, or it’s not about any of us.

I have a hard time believing this is just a random act by some stranger, though.

The fact that so much care went into packing her clothes and even her violin tells me that this is personal, most likely to her.

Someone spent time watching that apartment and learning her routine.

Time planning this abduction.

This isn’t the act of some rando.

As the driveway ends and the space opens up, my home finally comes into view.

If I’d been anyone else, silent alarms would’ve been tripped the second I turned onto the dirt road.

As it is, the recognition software I developed is programmed to scan both my car and my face, then disengages all of the security measures surrounding the most inconspicuous house you’ve ever seen in your life.

Which is a good thing because right now, I don’t have the patience to deal with phone alerts and passcodes.

Bringing my car to a stop, I jump out and seconds later, I’m bounding up the stairs.

Opening the front door that’s already been unlocked by the system, I walk inside, going straight through the living room, dining room, and kitchen.

On the other side of the kitchen is the laundry room, which no one would ever pay any attention to.

That was the whole point.

Hidden behind a sliding wall that would make Tim Curry’s character from Clue proud, is a door.

Unlike the rest of the house’s décor, this door is made of solid steel and about four inches thick.

Similar to the type you’d find on a bank vault, what lies behind it is just as valuable.

Information.

Opening a panel activates a three step biometric system that requires voice, fingerprint, and iris scans.

If someone were to actually reach the door and open the panel, the system was created to automatically lock down if the required verifications aren’t entered within 15 seconds.

This is plenty of time for me, considering I have all the required documentation, as it were.

As the door releases with a sound very similar to an airlock container being opened, I enter my favorite room of the house.

The one that nobody besides Merrick knows exists.

Three short steps down, and I’m standing in the center of my own version of paradise.

The wall directly in front of me is devoted to nothing but monitors.

Large screens that automatically go dark when no one is in the room but that now light up with wave after wave of information.

The system here is synced to my laptop, so to save time, I booted it up in the car on the drive home.

I put my laptop down and sit in a chair positioned behind the main desk, directly in front of the wall of screens.

I stare up at a large picture of Siren on one of the monitors.

Next to it lists all her personal details.

Not just the ones that are a matter of public record but everything from her social security number to the time and date of her next doctor’s appointment.

Do I feel bad about prying into her background? Before today, maybe I would’ve said yes.

Now, not in the least.

Because if there’s the possibility that I’m able to uncover something that can point me in the direction of the person who took her, I’ll gladly let her scream at me for invading her privacy when I’ve got her standing in front of me again.

As I stare at the screens, my fingers fly furiously over the keyboard.

As new documents and details flash in front of my eyes, one after the other, I just become increasingly frustrated.

Every bit of new information I learn about Siren piques my interest and only makes me want to know more about her.

But that’s not the point of this fact-finding mission.

Nothing I uncover gives any indication that it could be related to where she is or who may have abducted her.

Scrubbing my hand over my face, I glance at my watch and have to blink hard at the time before I accept the fact that I’ve been sitting here for four hours.

As much as I’d like to keep going and pray that something jumps out, I know that if I don’t get some sleep, I’m not only gonna be useless when it comes to gathering information, but I’m also gonna be crabby as fuck tomorrow.

Well … today, technically.

Also, tired people make mistakes, and I’m not a person who makes mistakes when it comes to digging up info.

Pushing back from the desk, I rest my forearms on my knees and hang my head in defeat for a moment.

There’s something I’m missing.

There’s gotta be.

Something I’ve either overlooked or just too exhausted to recognize as significant.

I finally force myself to stand up and wearily make my way over to the same door I entered through.

Closing up everything behind me, I drag myself back through the house and down the hallway that leads to my bedroom.

There, I fall into bed, still fully clothed.

Booted feet hanging off the side, I barely manage to toe them off and lay my head back on the pillow before it’s lights out for me.

Tomorrow’s a new day and a new opportunity to look at the situation through fresh eyes.

I can only pray that whoever has Siren isn’t hurting her in the meantime.

This isn’t the first time that the little curvy firecracker is the last thing on my mind before I fall asleep, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

I just wish that this time it were under better circumstances.

A buzzing in my skull wakes me, and it takes me a solid minute to realize it isn’t coming from inside my head but from underneath my pillow.

Realizing that it's gotta be my phone because I haven’t actually turned on my ringer since about 2010, I barely look at the caller ID before I hit the green button and bring the phone to my ear.

Merrick’s voice cuts through the fog, clouding both my mind and vision like a knife through room-temperature butter.

With little effort and with extreme purpose.

Fuck, now I want a toasted muffin.

“...

hello? Deacon, are you listening to me?”

Shaking off the remnants of a very lucid and possibly sexy dream featuring a currently missing woman, I berate my twisted brain while quickly glancing at the time before I reply, “I fell asleep three hours ago.

Sorry, I’m not more attentive, darling.

Maybe if you’d shown up with a cup of coffee and a muffin, I’d be more inclined to play the doting housewife and hang on your every word.”

See? Crabby.

Sighing, I say, “Shit.

Sorry, I’m just tired.

Though, I really do want a coffee and a muffin.

Blueberry preferably.”

I’m greeted by silence for several seconds before I hear, “Did you find anything?”

See, that’s one thing I love about Merrick.

He’s the only person alive who can navigate my ever-changing moods and let the ups and downs of my personality roll right off his back.

Or, to put it in layman’s terms, he tolerates my bullshit really well.

Sighing heavily, I say, “Not much.

Or should I say, not much that I didn’t already know.

Not that I’ve been stalking the woman before this.”

I may have been stalking the woman before this.

“I talked with Amelia after you left last night.

She thinks you should look into Siren’s whereabouts from when she was 16 until just after she turned 22.

According to Amelia, Siren left town mysteriously at 16 with some guy, and something bad must’ve happened because all she’d tell me was that when she went to pick her up six years later, she was in a bad state.

She isn’t sure, because Siren never wanted to go into detail about what happened during those six years, but she knows that during that time, someone hurt her.

Where that person is now, she doesn’t know.”

Sitting up, I throw my legs over the side of the bed, looking down to see that I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes.

Putting Merrick on speakerphone, I stand and tug my shirt over my head.

The light pouring in through the window catches and highlights the many tattoos littering my chest as well as the ones that comprise both full sleeves.

Heading for the bathroom, I turn on the shower before coming back into my bedroom to drop my pants and pull my socks off, nearly falling over in the process.

“What’s that noise?”

Merrick asks.

“Oh, nothing.

Just me nearly killing myself.

Please continue.”

He is not the least bit dissuaded by my sarcasm because, let's be honest, he’s used to it by now.

He does indeed continue.

“Amelia said that one night, right after her 22nd birthday, she got a phone call around 2 a.m.

from an unknown number.

When she answered, it was Siren.

She said she was in trouble and asked Amelia if she could come pick her up.

Amelia said she gave her directions to some seedy motel not far from Palm Beach, Florida.

She drove through the night and got there around 10 a.m.

the next morning.”

I realize I’m standing stark naked in the middle of my bedroom when Amelia speaks up for the first time.

Obviously, I’m not the only one that uses the speakerphone function.

Even though neither of them can see me, the fact that I’m talking to Merrick’s very pregnant wife while standing in my birthday suit skeeves even me out a little.

I feel guilty for being naked, which is absolutely ridiculous since I’m in my own damn bedroom.

“Deacon, when I opened the door to the motel room, it was pitch black inside.

She was huddled down on the floor between two double beds.

She’d lost about 50 pounds since I’d last seen her.

Her hair and face were a mess, and she just had a cheap motel towel pressed to her front.”

She pauses, and the ominous feeling that things are about to get much worse is confirmed when she continues.

“I think she had on a shirt at one point but had to take it off because her back was covered in cuts.

Slashes made by some kind of knife or blade.

There was blood everywhere.

It was dried up in her hair and all over her hands.

I assumed it was her own because a lot of the cuts on her back were still bleeding.

But she also had what looked like cigar burns on other parts of her body.

Some healed and scarred over, some fresh.

The minute I crouched down in front of her, she burst into tears.

I tried to hug her but I couldn’t even put my arms around her.

When I finally got her calmed down enough to speak, she would only say that she’d done what she had to do and that she wanted to go home.

So I helped her gather the few things she had with her, and we drove straight back to Charleston.

She stayed with me for nearly a month before she’d even face her parents, not that they gave a shit.

But during that month, she’d wake up every other night screaming.

Something happened to her during those few years, and I think it’s got something to do with whoever has her now.”

Sitting back down on the edge of the bed, I stare at the phone, trying to process everything she’s just said and reconcile the image of the barely there girl from that motel with the busty dynamo that I’ve come to know.

I can’t picture it, and I realize that the harder I try, the tighter my grip on the phone becomes until I can no longer feel my hand.

Deliberately loosening my hold, I say as calmly as possible, “I’m gonna have a quick shower, then I’ll get back to the computer. ”

“Thank you, Deacon.

Thank you so much.”

Amelia says.

The dueling worry and relief in her voice are palpable but she shouldn’t thank me just yet.

I may be good with technology but I don’t tell her that, in my experience, those with enough money and a high desire not to be found usually aren’t.

And from what it sounds like, during that time, whoever had Siren wouldn’t just be doing that type of shit to her out in the open.

Which means tracking them won’t be a cakewalk.

Sucks for them that I happen to be a muffin kinda guy anyway.

Saying my goodbyes with as much reassurance as I’m capable of giving at this point, I hang up, stand, and make my way back into the bathroom in a kind of daze.

Sitting my phone on the counter, I step under the hot spray, letting the water wash away the remnants of sleep and try to shake the sick feeling that things are gonna get a lot worse before they get better.